The first thing I see when I leave the basilica is another flashing light. This one’s red and it’s coming from the top of an ambulance pulling out of the basilica parking lot. At first, I think it’s one of the pilgrims—someone has fallen out of a wheelchair or had a heart attack. Still, the wailing sound of the siren rattles me. For the rest of my life, that sound will always remind me of the day of Mom’s accident and how I heard the siren in the background when Colette phoned to say something bad had happened. And how after that, everything in our lives changed.
I look over at the parking lot. Armand is there, wearing his orange vest. When he sees me, he waves, gesturing for me to come over.
“Did you hear what happened to the new priest?” he shouts as I walk toward him.
“D’you mean Father Fr-Francoeur?” My chest feels tight. What can have happened to Father Francoeur? Has he had a heart attack or some kind of stroke? Or was it an accident like Mom’s? What I’m thinking most of all is, Haven’t enough bad things happened to me already? Doesn’t God grant some kind of immunity to kids whose moms are paralyzed below the waist? Can’t He at least do a better job of looking after the people I’ve got left?
Armand nods yes. He means Father Francoeur. I rush over to Armand, grabbing hold of his elbow. A driver waiting for Armand to direct him to a parking spot honks. “What happened to him? Tell me!” My hands are shaking.
Armand signals for the driver to wait. “Take it easy, Ani,” he says. “I heard Father Francoeur had an allergic reaction. He was having lunch in the clergy cafeteria and his throat starting closing up. The paramedics said he went into anaphylactic shock.”
Armand turns around and directs the driver to a free spot. Then he walks back to where I’m waiting. “They think he might have an allergy to mangoes—because another priest told the paramedics they had mango yogurt for dessert.”
“Mangoes?”
Armand must notice how upset I am, because he says, “I didn’t know the two of you were so close.”
“We are. I mean…we’re not. He’s a family friend. D’you think he going to be all right?”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine. The paramedics were pretty pissed off he’d let his EpiPen expire. Look, Ani, you gotta chill out. Like you said, the guy’s a family friend. It’s not like he’s your dad. Imagine if, after everything you’ve been through, something bad happened to your dad— or to Colette…”
“If you’re trying to make me feel better, Armand, it’s not working.”
I can still hear Armand’s words inside my head as I walk along Avenue Royale. It’s not like he’s your dad.
The window shade is already down at Saintly Souvenirs. But now I hear Colette’s voice inside my head too. He’s old enough to be your father.
That’s when it occurs to me. What if—? What if—? No, there’s no way, no way in the world…
Then again, it’s possible. I try to do the math, but the numbers get jumbled inside my head like a calculator just before the battery dies.
I’m sixteen. How old was Mom when she had me? Why can’t I remember? It must be because I’m trying too hard to figure it out.
Okay, I think I’ve got the numbers right now. It could be. It could, even if it’s the grossest thing in all the world. The grossest thing ever.
Too gross to even think about. But there’s the math— and now the mango allergy.
Lots of people have allergies to peanut butter. But allergies to pitted fruit are less common. What if it’s not just a coincidence?
My head is going to explode. Or else I’m going to vomit. Maybe both at the same time.
There’s a wooden bench up ahead. If I sit for a bit maybe my stomach will settle. Pilgrims walk by, but I don’t notice them and they don’t notice me. I need to talk to someone. Not Mom. No way. Not now, not when she’s still so messed up. And definitely not Dad.
I’m thinking back on the conversation I overheard last week. Dad wanted to know something. What was it he said again? “I need to know who it was.” Mom didn’t want to tell him. She said he’d never needed to know before. Oh God, maybe that’s what they were talking about. Maybe Dad has known all along I wasn’t his. But Dad’s my dad. I know he is.
It’s hard to even hold up my head. When I close my eyes, I see myself sitting on a wooden bench on Avenue Royale, my head slumped over. Why can’t this be happening to someone else?
Thank God I didn’t kiss him. Though I came close. Now I really want to vomit.
A girl about my age is trying to get by in her wheelchair. I bring my legs a little closer to my body to give her more room. In the past, I might have looked away. This time, I don’t. She has freckles on her nose and stronger biceps than I’ve ever seen on a girl. She maneuvers the wheelchair past me.
When our eyes meet, she nods. There’s nothing disgusting about her. Nothing at all. I’m the monster, not her. All along, I’ve had it wrong. The really monstrous things don’t show on our outsides.
“Hey, Ani,” a voice calls. At first, I think it’s Iza. I don’t want to talk to her. I’ll tell her I have to get right home to look after Mom. I’ll say I’ll phone her later.
But it’s not Iza; it’s Colette. When I see her, the tension in my shoulders starts to loosen and the sick taste in my throat goes away. Colette drives me crazy, she has always driven me crazy, but she is always there. Like she is now.
Colette and Maxim have been to the clinic for the hiv/ aids tests. She’s blurting this out on the sidewalk for the whole town to hear. “There’s a new aids test,” she’s saying. “People used to have to wait two weeks for results. But we’ll know sooner. And the nurse, she’s Tante Hélène’s friend, she says she isn’t too worried. Maxim’s only had sex with two other girls. And he used a condom with the second one.”
“Colette! Can you at least whisper?”
“Oops,” she says, dropping her voice. “You’re right. I guess this stuff is kinda private, isn’t it?”
“Let’s go somewhere quiet. I need to talk to you about something important.”
“You do?” Colette’s voice goes up, as if I’ve offered her a gift.
The Scala Santa is Colette’s idea. She tells me how it’s her and Maxim’s favorite spot. She doesn’t have to say for what; I can figure that one out on my own.
When Colette takes my arm, I feel a little less monstrous. “Did you know Mom used to smoke behind the Santa Scala?” I ask her.
“I’m not surprised,” Colette says.
A woman is admiring a huge oil painting of Jesus on the cross. Some pilgrims are trudging up the stairs. One of them, a man, is on crutches and a younger person, probably his son, is helping him up.
Colette leads me up the stairs and around the building to a shady spot at the back. “There’s a concrete ledge we can sit on,” she says.
We hoist ourselves up onto the ledge. I let my legs dangle. Colette bangs her heels against the wall. We’re close to Côte Gravel, the steep winding street that leads up to Côte Ste-Anne. We hear a car chug as it climbs Côte Gravel. But from where we are, we can’t see it and it can’t see us. This is the perfect hiding place.
No wonder Mom came here to blow smoke rings and to teach Father Francoeur to smoke. Now I wonder what else they did behind the Scala Santa. “The thing I need to talk to you about,” I tell Colette, “it’s pretty gross.”
Colette has finally stopped kicking. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, this is about me.”
She raises her eyebrows. “You did something wrong?”
“Not really. Not me. It’s more something Mom did.” I pause. What I’m about to say is going to change everything between me and Colette. “With Father Francoeur. A long time ago.”
“Oh,” Colette says. Her pupils are getting big the way they did in my dream. “Do you really think—?”
“Uh-huh, I do.” I take a deep breath before I go on. “I’m nearly sure that Father Francoeur’s my dad…my biological dad.” Saying it out loud makes me feel even more certain that it’s true. And also a little bit afraid.
There’s no going backward now.
“Do you think Father Francoeur knows?” Colette asks.
“I’m not sure. But I think Dad does. I think he’s known all along.”
Colette has started kicking again. “You’re probably right.”
“Then he’s not my dad. Not my real dad.” I look at Colette. “And we’re not real sisters.” I can feel the tears roll down my cheeks.
When Colette wraps her arms around my shoulders, I let her. All our lives, I’ve had to look out for her. That’s what being a big sister means. This time though, she comforts me, rocking me from side to side.
“You’re wrong about that part,” she whispers. “No matter what, Dad’s your real dad—and we’re real sisters.”
“That’s not true,” I say between sobs. “You know it’s not true.”
“It is true. I know it here.” When I pull away a little, I see Colette is tapping her chest exactly where her heart is. “So are you going to talk to her about it?”
“I don’t think so. Not yet anyhow. And you better not either.” I don’t mean to sound so sharp.
Colette’s kicking double-time now. “She should’ve told us.”
“Yeah, she shouldn’t have lied. Especially since she raised us not to lie,” I say.
Colette looks at her feet. “It wasn’t exactly a lie. Maybe she was waiting for the right time to tell. Or maybe the longer she waited, the harder it got.”
“I guess. But still. She should’ve told us.”
We just sit that like for a while: Colette kicking at the air, me with my legs dangling down. I think about the matchy-match sisters and I feel a little jealous of them. At least they know who they are to each other.
We’re still sitting on the ledge when we hear the tinkling sound of a girl laughing. “Are you sure coming here is a good idea?” Her accent sounds Spanish.
“You’re gonna love it.” The words are followed by a laugh.
Colette and I both freeze. That voice. The laugh. Maxim.
A second later he’s in front of us, holding hands with the dark-haired girl whose photo he took at the canyon. The one he spoke Spanish to.
Colette jumps to her feet. Her face looks like it’s about to crack. “Maxim! What the hell? Why are you holding her hand?” She glares at the girl. “He’s my boyfriend, bitch!”
The girl shakes her hand loose from Maxim’s. Her dark eyes look angry. At who, I can’t tell.
But she’s not half as angry as Colette. “I hate you, Maxim! I really hate you!”
I’m standing now too. “Let’s go,” I say, trying to take hold of Colette’s elbow. “Don’t even talk to him. He’s not worth it.”
Maxim puts his hands in his pockets. “It’s not like we’re married or anything,” he tells Colette.
“You could at least say you’re sorry,” I hiss at Maxim. Maybe he never learned how to apologize.
Colette is sobbing. The Spanish girl bites her lip. “I’m sorry,” she tells Colette, but Colette won’t look at her.
“We should go,” Maxim tells the Spanish girl. “Listen, Colette,” he says, looking back at her, “I’ll phone you later and we’ll talk, okay?”
Colette sniffles. I know her—she never stays mad. She’s going to give Maxim another chance, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Colette rubs her eyes. When she speaks, her voice is shaky, but the words come out clear. “Don’t bother,” she tells Maxim. “We’re done.”
I decide not to say anything bad about Maxim, even though I want to. It won’t help Colette if I do. She rests her head against my arm.
“I really hate him,” she says, hiccupping, and then she starts to sob all over again. “But I love him too.” Saying that makes her cry harder.
There’s nothing for me to do but let Colette cry and hand her Kleenex when she needs it.
“There’s only one good thing,” Colette says when we finally get up from the ledge.
“What’s that?” I expect Colette to say that, soon, Maxim is supposed to go back to Quebec City. Or maybe that she’s glad that, thanks to her, the Spanish girl found out Maxim was a jerk before she fell for him too.
“The one good thing was you were here.”